


Museum Piece

by orphan_account



Category: due South
Genre: Community: ds_kinkmeme, Exhibitionism, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt on the "due South" Kinkmeme:</p>
<p>"due South, V/K, public sex -- Vecchio loves making Kowalski prove he'll do anything."</p>
<p>For that kind of thing, Chicago's nice and all, but Cleveland rocks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Museum Piece

They have to be careful in Chicago.  It’s a huge city, even not counting the adjacent towns, but you never know who you’re going to run into, or who might see you.  If you’re a cop, every place you’ve ever worked a beat or run an investigation is automatically a small town.

So Ray has to be really careful about what he makes Kowalski do.  The showy stuff is right off the table, so he has to try for subtle.  One time he had Kowalski wear a pair of his, Ray’s, boxers.  Once Kowalski had them on in the most comfortable way for him, Ray made him switch his cock over to the other side.  Then kissed him and made him get dressed without rearranging anything.

Ray knows Kowalski thought about him often that day.  That night, Kowalski’s dick was still on the “wrong” side, and Kowalski confessed, just before giving Ray a truly inspired blowjob (still in the boxers), that he’d felt even more aware of his cock all day, especially after buttoning up again in after one of his constant, coffee-induced trips to the men’s room.

“Aware of what about your cock?”  Ray’d asked, playing dumb.

“That it’s _yours_ , you fucker,” Kowalski had said, reaching for Vecchio’s fly. “Just like _this_ is for _me_.”  And, wow, that had really worked out well for all concerned parties.

Another time they went bowling.  “Sick of you looking like a fucking hobo,” Ray told Kowalski.  “Here, wear this.”  And he’d taken off the shirt he’d been wearing all day, that smelled like him, that was still warm from his body, and Kowalski had put it on and gone on to bowl the worst game of any adult in the history of Wrigley Lanes, then, still wearing the shirt, had climbed on top of Vecchio in their bed, riding him, looking down at him and also sniffing at the shirt that smelled like both of them by then.

The showiest thing Ray’s ever made Kowalski do, in Chicago (actually over in Evanston), was in an Italian place where Ray was pretty sure no one knew his name.  They’d placed their order when Ray leaned toward Kowalski, who mirrored him by leaning forward.

“Okay, Kowalski,” Ray said, and Kowalski looked bright with anticipation.  “How fast can you get hard for me?”

Kowalski’s eyes went wide.  “Um, pretty fast, but I might need a little, uh, encouragement?”

Ray’s eyes went narrow and he lowered his voice even more.  “Your ‘encouragement,’ Kowalski, is that you’re about to go into the men’s room, which I did you the courtesy of making sure is a single, you are very welcome for that particular favor, by the way, and then you’re gonna jack yourself off.  And you’re going to clean yourself up really good, except for your bracelet, which had better have some spunk on it.  Not so much that it’s obvious, but enough that I can smell it on you.”

Kowalski was nodding.  “Yeah, that worked, that _was_ pretty damn fast, and yes, thank you for the courtesy, now if you don’t mind, I have to, you know…spend a little something, see a man about a horse, whatever the polite way of saying ‘Get myself off in a restaurant men’s room because Ray wants me to’ is.”

Ray grinned.  “Kowalski, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only Ray at this table who wants that,” he said.  “You’re excused.”

He’d come back a few minutes later, looking as relaxed as Kowalski ever did during his waking moments.  And the smug little bastard had handed the bracelet to Ray as he sat down.

“Here, you seem to kind of like this bracelet, want to try it on?”  Jesus, Ray loved it when Kowalski pushed back at him, so he took the bracelet, put it on his left wrist where it slid against his watch, and spent the rest of dinner chatting with Kowalski.  Whenever Kowalski’s mind seemed about to wander, Ray lifted his wrist up to his face and sniffed, deliberately.  During dessert, Ray carefully checked the space around him before _licking_ the bracelet.

Kowalski didn’t have any trouble getting hard for him a second time, which Ray took care of while keeping his left hand on the wheel on the drive home.  And, back in their bed, Ray himself was ready to just come in his pants already, and Kowalski was hard _again_ once Ray started experimenting with other places Kowalski might try wearing the bracelet.

But that was about as freaky as they could get in Chicago and environs.  In Cleveland, no one knew or cared who they were or who they might be.  Since they were in town for a law enforcement convention, Ray had deliberately forgotten to book them into the convention hotel, so they were stuck off in a little boutique hotel, relatively far away from their brothers and sisters in blue.  Such a fucking shame.

They’d booked an extra day, so handy for them, pooling their per diems, and over breakfast, Ray told Kowalski that they were going to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.  Kowalski had been pretty excited about that, no surprise there.

The Hall was setting up a special exhibit, so one relatively small area was curtained off.  Ray stuck his head in, asking the workers what they were putting together and getting a head count.  Then he’d kept his eye on the exit for when they left for lunch (Kowalski was off spazzing out over a display case dedicated to the Ramones) and when everyone had left, he got Kowalski’s attention.  Kowalski reluctantly dragged himself over to Ray, but when Ray pulled him into the work area, all dark, purple and black, with the smell of fresh paint in the air and heavy canvas curtains and half-wired lighting, Kowalski went quiet.

“See that pin light over there?”  Ray jerked his head to one corner.  It was the only working pin light in the room, so kind of hard to miss.  Kowalski nodded, swallowing nervously.

“Go stand under it, then pull your dick out and let me see it.”

“Jesus, Vecchio,” Kowalski whispered, and Ray didn’t need decent lighting to know he was blushing.

“Hey, they’re not wired for cameras yet, and believe me I checked for people.  I’m not sharing this sight with anyone.  And if it’s too much for you, if you think someone’s coming, you can slide in any direction and be in the shadows."

Kowalski nervously edged his way into those shadows while Ray patiently waited, carefully listening for footsteps.  There weren’t any.  Kowalski was messing around in the shadows next to the pin light; Ray figured he was getting his head together, talking himself into it.  Ray wondered if he’d gone too far, if Kowalski could push himself there without additional direct help from Ray.

But no, suddenly Kowalski had side-stepped under the pin light, and was standing there like Ray’s own personal work of art, his own museum piece.  Kowalski had on a black Sex Pistols t-shirt, black jeans, black boots, and his skin was pale but golden under the pin light, with his dick hanging out of his fly.

Ray’s mouth was dry with lust, too dry for him to say anything, to order Kowalski to give him a little show.  But Kowalski suddenly grinned at him, that “you only _think_ you’re in charge here” grin, and his long hands and lean fingers were framing his cock, then stroking it into the start of a hard-on, then framing it again, then stroking and then, oh shit, oh fuck, putting his semi-erect dick away, zipping up and moving back into the shadows.

It felt like an eternity of exposure, at least to Ray, and he hadn’t been the one on display, risking discovery, trusting someone else to know when enough was enough.  Ray covered the ground between them and pushed Kowalski up against the wall (which thankfully turned out to be a sturdy, permanent structure) and kissed him long and hard, with open-mouthed desperation, putting his own hand on Kowalski’s dick.

“Jesus, get a _room_ ,” someone said, which, _fuck_ ,  made Kowalski’s dick _twitch_ against Ray’s hand because apparently for Kowalski it wasn’t just the _fear_ of getting caught that got him.  Christ, maybe what Kowalski most feared was _not_ getting caught.

Kowalski laughed hoarsely.  “Thanks, pal,” he said with an easy voice completely at odds with the way he was shaking and sweating in Ray’s arms.  “We’ve got one, and that’s where we’re going now.  Come on, buddy,” he said cheerfully to Ray.

Ray pulled it together enough to slip the get-a-room-guy a twenty, but it was Kowalski who got them out of the Hall and into a taxi and up to their room, kissing him in the elevator and all the way down the hall.  Ray was nothing but need by then.

But that was okay, because they had a _room_.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but I've been to enough not-ready-for-public-display galleries within museums to realize just how fantastically unrealistic this is.


End file.
